


Blood of the Voidbringer

by navigator_noir (navigatorsghost)



Series: Vampire'verse [1]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: AU, Consensual Violence, Depravity, Dreams, M/M, Nightmares, Vampirism, black blood and purple prose, it's just dark and fucked up and I was trying to make dark and fucked up sound sexy, physical and spiritual debauchery, seriously I don't know how to warn for this fic, vampire robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-05 11:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatorsghost/pseuds/navigator_noir
Summary: Unicron intended to keep his creations loyal to him, even at the darkest and most intimate price. And it's possible to miss even Hell when the Devil let you drink his blood.





	Blood of the Voidbringer

**Author's Note:**

> This is an interlude from a 'verse in which the Unicronian triad are obligate vampires, as a result of them having been built to run on Unicron's own fuel and not being able to consume ordinary energon at all. Following Unicron's death, they're making do by feeding off other TFs and rationing the supply of crystallised dark energon they've been able to scrape out of the fuel lines in what's left of Unicron's head... but by comparison, that's not exactly satisfying.

He dreams in black and gold, in acid-green and crimson light.

He dreams of the forges of the abyss, the endless drowning red heat of the furnaces where whole worlds are unmade as though they had never been. The heat engulfs him, soaks into him, fires him with a bottomless need to take and be taken, to consume and be consumed in an endless cycle of annihilation that twists inward and inward until it rises to an unknown peak of ecstasy. He will never reach that final height; a mirage, unattainable, a promise dangled in front of him and his pack-kin to lure them on to the ends of creation and beyond, slaves to the will of the darkness that made them. And yet even knowing the deception, they follow anyway. Ravenous, driven, wanting;  _starving_ for this, for anything. For _more_.

Shadows and hot red light. Deeper, deeper into the labyrinth body of a god. Nothing here is forbidden to them, no depths too intimate to be explored and worshipped and profaned with claws and fingers and fangs and glossae and whatever else of their weaponised selves they choose to bring to bear. They climb through the cables of a monster's sinews, bestride the pounding beat of pistons the size of warships, sluice off the dust of battle beneath cascades of molten steel. The very walls around them ring with the laughter of the darkness.

Pathways of girders, nets of writhing tendrils that stabilise briefly beneath their feet or treacherously snake around their limbs in unfathomable and unspeakable lust. White-glowing smelting pools, spinning blades the height of habitation blocks. The whine and grind and churn of wheels and engines and unknowable machineries far below, buried in the depths of this ancient, hallowed frame. And at last, in a vast hollow space that pounds with the monstrous rhythm of a beating heart, the conduits in which their creator's lifeblood runs: thicker across than their own bodies, pulsing with heat and darkness and _power_. The dark delight of their maker reverberates through their frames, shaking struts and shivering plating, intensifying their hunger until it feels like evisceration. And _this is permitted_. This they may take.

Claws and fangs. Biting, tearing, despoiling living metal older than galaxies - the ancient conduits are strong, but not stronger than new-forged edges and ravenous sparks. Black flame pouring over them, hotter than forgefire, glistening like oil, vaporising in coils of ebon haze where its overspill strikes their plating; and legacy instincts whisper _poison_ , but their sparks cry _yes_. _Yes, take. Drink. Drown your thirst, drown yourselves, drink deep and be one with the void for a few shining moments before you must hunt once more…_

The taste is like acid, like fire, like honey for the damned, and it whets their hunger even as it fills them full. Madness grips them as they drink, seeing each other's faces painted in blood-black shimmer, optics ablaze with dark rapture and desire; the darkness drips from their armour and fills them through every crack and seam it can flow into, repaying and rewarding the violation they commit upon their creator. Systems spark with excess charge, engines roar and fans whine, frames stressed to their limits and yet _this is not enough_. Looking into a familiar face become a mask of feral ecstasy, fangs bared in a savage laugh, black blood staining silver lips and glossa...

...and leaning in, _pleading_ with wide optics and parted lips in turn, willing to fight or beg for a single taste. Mouths colliding, glossae twining together, _tasted, devoured;_ strong hands grasping at his armour and pulling him in to be taken in his turn, a powerful silver thigh thrust between his, laying him open, taking his balance and forcing him to fall where he belongs-

Cyclonus startles awake with a desperate moan, engines running combat-hot and fans whining distress, motive cables strained taut and his fields a blazing tangle of flaring silver and black-crackling static. He gasps and tries instinctively to suppress any or all of it, scrambling for the self-control that's all he has to make any of this survivable-

"Cyclonus?!"

His lord's voice, his lord's powerful frame pressed close and hot against his, and _of course_ he's woken Galvatron, there's no way he couldn't have done with all of _this_ spilling over from his systems. He winces. "My lord, forgive me... just a dream..."

"Here!" And he's pulled up, dream and reality merging ecstatically as those hands once again grip his back and the edge of his wing, dragging him up into Galvatron's arms and close enough to be _kissed tasted taken devoured oh yes-_

-and Galvatron _doesn't_ , even though his aura is heating up every moment with desire and savage hunger as his systems slide into resonance with Cyclonus's. He pauses instead to reach into a pocket-fold and pull out a tiny steel casket, flicking it open with his thumb, and Cyclonus goes still as stone and watches him in desperate disbelieving hope as he takes out a single one of the black crystals that are the most precious thing the three of them still possess besides each other. _Please-?_

...watching as Galvatron reaches up and takes the crystal in his own mouth, the radiation-poison-violet glow of it vanishing between his lips. Hearing the whispered, sparking _crunch_ as the Herald crushes the tiny thing between his dentae, a hot-black shiver of power flaring through his aura and his optics darkening in ecstasy. And _then_ he dips his head and kisses Cyclonus, mouth open and glossa extended; and Cyclonus almost chokes at that taste, the black-glitter memory of the void's power sweetened beyond bearing by Galvatron's own golden fire. Cyclonus arches his back and lets his lord's mouth swallow his cry, his fingers clawing for a grip on amethyst plate and his whole frame shaking in desperate desire. _Yes, yes, yes!_

What he's truly craving may no longer exist, but this is the purest form of it that's left in the universe, and if it is offered, _he will take it_.


End file.
